


Playing with Fire

by LathboraViran



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-05 02:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18356981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LathboraViran/pseuds/LathboraViran
Summary: Mahanon Lavellan and Dorian Pavus both have too much baggage to be falling in love. And yet, despite their best intentions, they can't seem to stay away from each other.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a formal beta reader, but special thanks to my writing group for reading significant portions of the first few chapters, and to my friends whom I've foisted this on before publishing. They've caught several silly errors and given me the confidence to post this here.
> 
> Finally, I keep editing the notes and summaries because I'm still figuring out how they all work and what I want to do with them. Thanks for bearing with the instability! It should settle down soon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue: In Which Mahanon Wants to Get Laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, this has a different feel than most of the fic. Mostly because it's the only part that directly features Sera (at least in what I've got drafted or outlined so far). So if you're not a big Sera fan, just skip this prologue, and you'll enjoy the rest. (Or at least if you don't enjoy it, it won't be because Sera.)

“What does a man have to do to get some dick around here?” Mahanon demanded, punctuating his complaint with a swig of ale.

Sera sniggered. “Who 'ave you tried for?”

“Who haven't I? The Commander goes a nice shade of pink, but he shut me down.”

“Shame,” Sera interrupted. “Even I think he's pretty, and I don't go in for the cocky crowd.”

“Then there was Solas. I don't think he'd notice I'm flirting if I pinned him to the wall of that sad little cabin. He'd still be looking over my shoulder at the damn Breach.” That got another snigger from Sera. “Varric has this whole married-guy vibe going, like he's not on the market. I'm not into it.”

“Well that's the big people covered. What about the little people?”

“Look, that's the list of every man who's looked me in the eye since I woke up from the Conclave. Your ‘'little people’ are either gaga over the 'Herald of Andraste’ or terrified of the baby-stealing savage.”

“Guess you’ll have to go looking for some new big people. Aren't we going to the Hinterlands tomorrow for that Warden?”

“Yup. If all goes well, we’ll go right to the Storm Coast from there and look into the mercenary band that wants our gold.”


	2. Stomach Flips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon realizes he's falling in love with Dorian. This was not part of the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've jumped forward in time to just after the meeting with Dorian's father in Redcliffe. Everything has played out canonically up to this point.

Dorian was the first to step back from the kiss. “I see you enjoy playing with fire,” he murmured, the expression in his eyes guarded.

Mahanon's heart was racing. That wasn't what worried him. It was the flip-flop his stomach did that caused him to step back. He kept his voice light, though: “I don't know, but I do like playing with a certain fire mage.”

Dorian smirked. “At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day. Join me sometime, if you’ve a mind.”

“I may take you up on that. But at the moment, I’m sure Josephine is expecting me. She’s always got a pile of letters to go through with me when we get back from a trip.”

~~~

Mahanon fought with himself that evening in his quarters. A good friend - a good leader - would go to Dorian in the tavern and talk. This business with his father was clearly affecting him, and Dorian deserved to have his friends around him. He could go to Dorian and talk about life in Tevinter, or ask Dorian to teach him how to play chess - not that that had gone well the first time. But Mahanon’s fumbling around the chess board would lighten Dorian’s mood.

And then Mahanon pictured the glimmer in his eyes, his brown fingers perching on a chess piece - and his own stomach flipped again. _Fenedhis_. Not the stomach flips. He wasn’t going to do this. He was not going to fall in love. Not again. And that was where the stomach flips always led. Flips to love to humiliation and pain, and he couldn’t deal with that and run this unwieldy human organization. Maybe he couldn’t deal with it at all, even if he weren’t trying to save the world. No, he’d back off. Give himself some space. Let the flips die out.

Mahanon spent the next few days largely in meetings. Hours at the war table planning diplomatic relations and responding to the requests of Inquisition members and their allies. Hours with Josephine in anticipation of the ball at Halamshiral - lessons on dining etiquette and dancing, a few Orlesian phrases, a who’s who of nobles likely to attend. Mahanon was burning with boredom by the end of it, but all the meetings and lessons gave him the perfect excuse to avoid the rotunda and the tavern. To avoid Dorian.

Every time his mind wandered to the little curl of Dorian’s mustache or that perpetually-bare shoulder, he redirected his thoughts to Josie’s lessons on Orlesian courtiers.

Before the unexpected trip to Redcliffe, they had planned another excursion into the Hinterlands, and Mahanon had invited Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall to travel with him. They were already proving to be a powerful team, hard to hurt and quick to beat down an enemy. The plan was to clear out some Venatori camps, and Mahanon wanted his best team for it. Leliana’s sources indicated only one or two mages at each camp, but if Dorian’s skill was anything to go by, those mages would be dangerous.

He’d turned it over in his mind every night. Should he change the travel plans to give himself more space, more time away from Dorian? But what excuse could he give for the change? And would taking one less mage - he would not travel with Vivienne - put them at a disadvantage against the Venatori? He wouldn’t risk his friends’ safety just to stamp out an infatuation. He would just have to keep a friendly, professional distance. He could do that.

Mahanon was up before dawn, as he would have been at home with his clan. He dressed quickly in his armor, sheathed his daggers, and headed down to the stables to help pack provisions into saddlebags. By the time he and the stablehand finished, Blackwall had joined them, awake and armored but growly. They walked back up to the keep together without more than a “Good morning.”

They met Solas and Dorian in the Great Hall for breakfast, which was already becoming a little ritual among them. Occasionally Cassandra or Josephine would join them, but not this morning. There was a general mumble of good mornings, and Mahanon noticed that Dorian looked unusually bleary. The tension around his eyes spoke to headache or hangover.

“Did you get Varric to bet you drinks instead of gold at Wicked Grace again last night?”

Dorian seemed to be going for a grin, but it looked more like a grimace. “No. Bull introduced me to his dear friend maraas-lok. It does not agree with me.”

“It doesn't agree with anyone, except the Bull, and I think he fakes liking it. His idea of a joke, giving you that before a journey.”

“His sense of humor should be dragged to the gallows and hanged by the neck until dead,” Dorian said.

“I can't make that happen, but I'll give him a good Inquisitorial scolding when we get back from the Hinterlands.” Mahanon set to his eggs and back bacon. Not much more was said at breakfast.

As they walked down the stairs to the courtyard, the sun had risen just high enough to begin peering over the keep behind them. It glowed gold against the stone of the gate towers, and for the first time in days, Mahanon felt his breathing slow and a bit of tension release from his shoulders.

They continued down to the stables, where they checked over the saddlebags and mounted. In those few minutes, Cullen had come down from his office to clap them each on the shoulder. “Stay safe out there, Inquisitor. I don’t like the sound of these Venatori.”

“We’ll be fine. They don’t know what they’re up against,” Mahanon replied with easy confidence. “We’ll check in with you when we get back. I expect we’ll be gone a few weeks, but we’ll send a raven when we’re a few days out from home.” Funny how quickly Skyhold had earned the name “home.”

“Until then,” Cullen replied.

“Until then.”

And they were off, through the courtyard and then across the long bridge out of Skyhold, the only sound their horses’ hooves clattering across the stone.

~~~

On the third day, they reached the road that ran around Lake Calenhad. They were heading first to the Inquisition camp near Dennet’s farm, and from there would range north, then south, to locate the two groups of Venatori that had been spotted in the Hinterlands. But Lake Calenhad was large, and they still had two more days before they reached the farms.

About an hour before sunset on the fourth day, they chose a camping site in the woods, just far enough from the road to be hidden from passers by. There was a tiny creek a few steps away, which fed into the lake farther down. While the others set up the two tents and built a cookfire, Mahanon disappeared into the trees with the bow he’d brought, looking for small game for their dinner. As he put distance between himself and the noises of the others at the campsite, his mind wandered. He’d managed to avoid conversing much with Dorian, but as they rode, he’d kept finding his eyes straying to the mage’s hands on the reins, his lips as he teased Solas for his nonexistent fashion sense. He’d snapped himself out of it quickly, but the flips in his stomach were back, and he was fairly sure Dorian had caught at least a couple of his looks.

Mahanon found a nugtrail and followed it at a little distance. When the sounds of the campsite were faint enough not to disturb the wildlife, Mahanon knocked an arrow, went completely still, and waited. He cleared his mind - it wouldn’t do for a stray thought to turn his arrow aside when dinner walked past. He spent perhaps twenty minutes in this way, hearing the birds sing songs of evening, feeling the wind wick at his face through the trees, watching the light turn to the deep gold just before sunset. Then a nug happened through on the game trail, Mahanon drew his bow and loosed an arrow, and the nug fell. He examined the nug long enough to determine that he’d put the arrow through the creature’s skull and not damaged the meat, then picked the animal up and walked back to camp with the confidence of a man who’d lived his entire life in wild woods.

When he returned, the fire was blazing and Solas or Blackwall had already set up the spit on its crochets. Mahanon set to skinning and gutting the nug, and Blackwall came over to chat.

“Solas?” Mahanon said. “I think I saw some wild rosemary not too much further into the woods. Would you mind gathering a few sprigs? That’ll give this a little flavor.” The light was fading fast now, and Solas would be able to use a bit of magelight to help him find the rosemary.

It wouldn’t take Mahanon long to dress the nug, but it would give the fire a bit more time to burn down to the coals they needed for a spit roast. Mahanon was guaranteed another fifteen minutes or so without having to look at or speak to Dorian, who still couldn’t stomach the process of field dressing. Before the meeting with Dorian’s father, Mahanon had enjoyed ribbing Dorian about his delicate noble sensibilities. He’d refrained from the teasing on this trip - one more way he was creating distance.

Solas returned with the herbs just as Mahanon was fastening the nug to the spit with skewers through its thighs and forelegs. He tied the young rosemary around the nug, and Blackwall moved some of the fire’s coals into position below where the spit would sit. Mahanon placed the spit into the crochets and walked away to dispose of the nug’s innards and clean his hands in the stream.

By the time he came back, Dorian had settled back in by the campfire with the others. Mahanon’s stomach flipped at the mere sight of Dorian’s face in the firelight, gold flickering across shadows. For a moment, Mahanon was reminded of the early morning sun reflecting from Skyhold’s walls. But where that sight had brought him a moment of peace in the turmoil of the last few months, seeing Dorian made his heart race and tension rise through his spine and shoulders. He forced himself to look away and sat down between Dorian and Blackwall, where his line of sight would fall on Solas instead.

It seemed Blackwall had asked about the time magic at Redcliffe, since Solas was saying, “The distortion of time? I have seen magic accomplish many things, but ... no, that is new.”

Dorian scoffed. “Even the ancient elves never managed it?”

“Not that I have seen in my journeys in the Fade, no. Perhaps they realized how damaging it might be and were wise enough not to tamper with the weft of time itself.”

“Still, there’s at least one thing that Tevinter magisters managed before the elves.”

“I have been thinking about that. Perhaps it was only possible because of the Breach, which of course did not exist in ancient times. Would you mind explaining the spell to me so that we may explore that theory?”

“I had thought the same thing, that something about the Breach made it possible. Before that, it was all theory. We could never make it work.”

After that, Mahanon lost the thread of their conversation as it drifted into magical theory and craft that he didn’t understand. Blackwall was just as lost, but he was studying the flames of the campfire in a way that suggested he wasn’t particularly interested in conversation just then. Mahanon let himself be absorbed in tending the fire and turning the spit, and emptied his mind as he had when he was hunting.

When the nug was cooked through, they ate it with some of the flatbread from their provisions. Conversation turned to past battles, with Blackwall animatedly telling outlandish tales from his mercenary days before the Grey Wardens recruited him. When they had finished eating, Blackwall stood. “Well, that’s about enough for one day for this old codger. I’m turning in. I’ll take the second watch, though.”

For the past three nights, Mahanon had waited a few minutes after the first of the party had turned in - usually Blackwall - before saying his own good nights and retiring to the tents. Since Dorian always stayed up latest, Mahanon could thus avoid sharing a tent with him. But Mahanon felt it necessary to leave those few minutes between Blackwall turning in and doing so himself, so that his avoidance routine wasn’t too obvious.

Tonight, he was too slow. As soon as Blackwall said he would turn in, Solas followed. “I think I’d best turn in early as well. Travel is hard on us old codgers,” he said lightly. It was hard to tell in the firelight, but Mahanon was fairly sure he caught Blackwall winking conspiratorially at Solas as they walked over to the same tent. Perhaps he’d been too obvious about avoiding Dorian’s tent after all.

He tried again to find that still place in his mind, usually an easy task when watching the occasional leaps of an hours-old fire. But he found he couldn’t focus enough to slow the racing of his heart. Since he’d chosen to sit next to Dorian rather than look at him, he now became blindingly aware of Dorian’s presence only a few inches to his right. Would it be better to go to bed now, and hope that he was asleep by the time Dorian joined him in the tent? More likely, Dorian would follow him to the tent and confront him about Mahanon’s avoidance of the mage. If a confrontation was inevitable, better out here in the open than in the claustrophobic privacy of the tent.

Dorian sighed heavily. “Mahanon,” he said, and paused. “Why did you bother to bring me out here if you’re not going to speak to me?”

Mahanon heard the tightness of Dorian’s voice and resolutely stared into the fire. “I…” he began, and found he had no response. What could he say that would neither hurt his friend nor lead him on?

“I thought perhaps I’d misread you. I asked Sera if she thought you preferred women.”

At that, Mahanon let out a nervous bark of a laugh. “What did she say about that?”

“She practically laughed me out of the tavern. I believe her exact words were, ‘Mahanon is all about the cocks.’”

“Was that _all_ she said?” Mahanon asked, thinking of his conversation with her back at Haven, when he’d been flirting with half the men in the Inquisition. Somehow, he would be embarrassed for Dorian to know about that conversation. In any case, it would make it harder to explain why he was trying to back off.

“She also said that you fancy me. So I’ve been trying to figure out why you have been avoiding me since… since we returned from Redcliffe.” Dorian ran his hand through his hair, and Mahanon realized that at some point he had turned from staring into the fire and was now watching Dorian. _Dangerous_ , he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to turn away. The firelight and shadow, even the half-veiled look of pain, playing across Dorian’s face were mesmerizing.

And it hit Mahanon suddenly that he wasn’t going to be able to stay away. He was in too deep. Unless he sent Dorian away from the Inquisition - which he would not do - he would never be able to create enough space. Perhaps if he went into the field without Dorian and stayed away from Skyhold for a few months? But Josephine and Leliana would be after him for shirking his diplomatic duties, and they’d be right. He couldn’t put aside his responsibility to the Inquisition, to Thedas, just to keep avoiding something personal.

Dorian must have seen something shift, some tacit permission given, because he inched closer to Mahanon, leaned closer yet, and whispered, “Why are you avoiding me?” The skin around his eyes crinkled with hurt.

Mahanon’s stomach flipped in response to how close Dorian’s face was to his own and he felt a rush of fear. He tried to remember the last time he’d felt so afraid, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t even been this terrified when they’d encountered the Templar bruiser who kept swinging his maul in great circles and knocking Mahanon off his feet. He’d left that fight with a cracked rib. Even that hadn’t broken his courage, so why was he letting fear control him now?

The truth, then. He would speak his truth and if he walked away with a broken heart instead of a broken rib, that would heal too, he said to himself, and silenced the whisper in the back of his mind that said broken hearts don’t heal so quickly.

“If we do this,” Mahanon paused to swallow, his pulse somehow racing faster than before. “If we do this, I will fall in love with you.” His voice was barely a whisper by the last word.

He saw the pain in Dorian’s eyes ease and change into something else - understanding, perhaps, or realization. “Is that really so terrifying?” Dorian whispered.

“It never ends well, in my experience.”

“Nor mine,” said Dorian, sadness crinkling around his eyes again. “Perhaps we need to make some new experiences? Better ones.”

“Yes.” Mahanon’s voice was less than a whisper. He thought he could hear his heart beating too fast in the moment of stillness that followed. Then his stomach flipped again, the fear rose with the pace of his heartbeat, and he thought _Fuck the fear, I’m going to enjoy this for as long as I can have it_ , and he wrapped his fingers through the short, layered hair at the back of Dorian’s head and leaned up and kissed him.

For a moment, the world fell away, and there was nothing except Dorian’s hands on his waist, and his hand in Dorian’s hair, and the hard press of soft lips, and the tickle of Dorian’s mustache above Mahanon’s upper lip.

And then the fear reasserted itself, and Mahanon broke the kiss and leaned back. Dorian’s face was half in shadow, the firelight licking across his cheekbone and sparking off Dorian’s eyes like sunlight on silverite.

“What? Has my merest touch left you speechless? Or is it my glorious visage?” Dorian teased.

“The firelight on your face. Creators, you’re beautiful.” _Ugh_ , he thought, _look at me getting all sappy_. He rolled up and forward and planted a knee on either side of Dorian’s hips, drawing himself up until his face was above Dorian’s. He let Dorian see nothing but hunger in his eyes for a long moment, then kissed him again, mouth open, tongue pressing hard and quick against the bottom of Dorian’s upper lip. He pulled back slightly and nibbled Dorian’s lower lip gently, just enough to cause the faintest hint of pain, just enough to cause Dorian to let out a low sound from the back of his throat. Mahanon kissed him again, tongue probing deeper this time and drifting along the bottom of Dorian’s tongue, as if to hint at things Mahanon might like to do later. He was fairly sure Dorian took the hint, since it earned him a little moan and Dorian’s hands grasping at his waist.

Mahanon broke the kiss and let his hips sink down until he was sitting in Dorian’s lap. Then he began kissing his way up the firelit side of Dorian’s neck. When he ran out of neck to kiss, he went back to Dorian’s lips to begin another long, luxurious kiss. Dorian’s hips rolled up in response. Mahanon moaned into Dorian’s mouth, then broke away again. “Should we move this to the tent?”

“I believe Blackwall and Solas intended that we should take first watch.”

Mahanon moved his mouth to Dorian’s ear to whisper, “Then I’m not above fucking you out here in the open, like the wild creature your countrymen think I am.” Mahanon felt Dorian freeze, his torso suddenly tense and rigid. He pulled back enough to look Dorian in the eye. “What did I say?”

Dorian tried visibly to relax, but only half the tension went out. “You’ll think me ridiculous.”

“Is it flying cows over Minrathous? Because that story was ridiculous.”

That elicited a fleeting grin from Dorian. “It’s just we - I - haven’t bathed in four days and I’d rather be clean before we get dirty.” He tried to rescue it with a lascivious smirk at the end, but the usual swagger wasn’t in it.

Mahanon almost laughed, but managed to stifle it. He couldn’t stifle the grin though. “You’re horribly vain. I’m sure we both smell like horse, but I stopped noticing horse smell about three hours from Skyhold.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be too busy feeling unwashed to enjoy myself.”

“You know, I had never even seen a bathtub before I came south for the Conclave.”

Dorian sighed. “Don’t push me -”

Mahanon interrupted. “That’s not where I was going with it. Just because the Dalish don’t stuff big metal tubs into our aravels doesn’t mean we don’t bathe. Do humans never bathe in streams or lakes?”

“Certainly Tevinter nobles do not.”

“One of these days I’ll have to teach you to bathe like the Dalish. Could be fun.” Mahanon grinned and wiggled an eyebrow.

“Could be cold,” said Dorian skeptically, but Mahanon thought he seemed persuadable. Better not to push now, though. As much as Dorian wore his vanity on his sleeve, it seemed to be a bit of a sore spot tonight at least.

“So no sex and no bathing in Lake Calenhad in the middle of the night. I suppose we’ll have to kiss for hours like youths who are still too shy to take it any further.”

“I can think of worse fates,” Dorian said and kissed Mahanon gently. When he spoke again, his voice was low and sultry. “Besides, sex is always better when you’ve been waiting for it.”

“I’ve been waiting since the day we met, Dorian.”

“Mm. You too then?”

They were still kissing when it was time to wake Blackwall for the second watch. Dorian remained by the fire while Mahanon went into the tent to wake Blackwall.

When they emerged from the tent and Blackwall saw Dorian, he grinned. “I wasn’t sure I’d find both of you still awake.”

“I knew I saw a wink,” Mahanon replied.

“How touching that you conspired on our behalf,” said Dorian. “I think I may be sick, it’s so sweet.”

They turned in. Mahanon fell asleep curled around Dorian, his forehead against the base of Dorian’s neck. He only had to fight back one wave of fear before the weariness of a day’s travel overtook him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I've got a couple more chapters' worth of things to say about these guys. I'm just not really convinced I can do it justice because obviously this is going smutty places very soon if I keep writing. I'm gonna try to get another chapter up next Friday, but no guarantees that it actually contains the smut.


	3. The Possibility of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Mahanon still aren't sure what they are to each other, though an encounter with Red Templars pushes them to be a bit more transparent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the updated tags. Canon-typical violence in the middle, with references to rape and some moderately graphic violence in the conversation that follows.

Dorian woke up when Blackwall woke Solas for the last watch. That wasn’t unusual - Dorian was never a sound sleeper. What was unusual was that Mahanon was still wrapped around him, an arm over his waist.

For a moment he let himself just feel safe and protected. And then the doubts came pouring in. He liked the Inquisitor too much already. Letting himself get emotionally entangled like this would only lead to heartbreak. Every time he thought he’d built up enough emotional scar tissue not to get involved, he found himself right back here, willing himself not to let it go too far.

But wasn’t it the same fear he’d seen mirrored in Mahanon’s eyes only a few hours ago? This wasn’t just physical to Mahanon either. They weren’t going in the direction of a single night’s tumble in the sheets, then back to careful distance. Were they? Mahanon had… threatened to fall in love with him, after all.

But maybe that’s what the fear was about. Mahanon didn’t want it to get emotional. He did want just a physical relationship, and he’d likely rip both their hearts out to keep it that way. He’d been there before, in Tevinter, with Rilienus. He had wanted more then, but he’d convinced himself they couldn’t have it, and he’d ended it. To protect them both. And all it had gotten either of them was a broken heart. Maybe it would have been worse, if it had gone on longer. But as it was, it had hurt so badly he still felt echoes of it even now, five years later.

He couldn’t do that again, walk away and break his own heart. But Mahanon was younger, and maybe hadn’t learned that lesson yet. Could Dorian walk away now - leave it at passionate kisses and the possibility of more - and not break their hearts? He wasn’t deep into it yet, like he’d been with Rilienus.

But it was the possibility. The possibility of more. He’d spend the rest of his life wondering if this would have been the one time in his life when they both wanted more. Better heartbreak than to wonder forever. Right?

He was distracted from his thoughts for a moment then, because Mahanon stirred. The arm that was draped over Dorian moved suddenly, Mahanon’s hand pressing, half-curled, against Dorian’s chest, pulling him closer. Dorian’s breath caught in his throat. But Mahanon continued to breathe evenly, apparently still sound asleep.

He’d just be careful to give Mahanon an out. Make it clear that he didn’t _expect_ anything more. And that was true. He wanted more, but he didn’t expect it. He expected a brief solace in the long aloneness that was the inevitable fate he’d resigned himself to years ago. He just couldn’t chase off the glimmering hope, like a candle flame in the vast darkness of the rotunda two hours before dawn, that this time it could be more.

He sighed and chastised himself: he should try to get back to sleep. There were only three hours or so before dawn. When they’d shared a tent on previous trips, Mahanon was always up before the sun, and despite how quietly he always moved, Dorian invariably woke up to it.

It took him a long time to fall asleep again, partly because he didn’t want to move and disturb Mahanon, who apparently was _not_ a restless sleeper, as he remained steadfastly curled around Dorian. When Dorian finally fell asleep, it was with his arms wrapped around Mahanon’s arm that was still clutching his chest. It felt a bit childish, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was too good, being held and being fairly certain that it wouldn’t be _this_ morning, at least, that the man holding him would walk away.

~~~

It was still pitch dark in the tent, the gray light that announced the coming dawn not yet strong enough to shine through the tent canvas. Mahanon woke to find that Dorian had rolled onto his back, but his arm was still across Dorian’s chest, with Dorian’s arms tangled around it. Mahanon’s other arm was under Dorian’s neck and was painfully asleep.

He sighed and slowly pulled his sleeping arm out from under Dorian, trying not to wake him. The effort was in vain of course. Dorian was stirring now. For someone with a reputation for sleeping well into the morning, Dorian was a remarkably light sleeper. Mahanon didn’t know how he managed to sleep through sunlight pouring through his windows at Skyhold.

“Go back to sleep,” Mahanon murmured. “You’ve still got half an hour before we need to be up.” Dorian mumbled something indistinct in response.

Mahanon tried to extricate his other arm, the one wrapped up in Dorian’s arms, but Dorian grasped at his arm and wouldn’t let it go. “Don’t go,” Dorian said suddenly, his voice clearer but still husky with sleep - and was that fear in his tone?

 _Oh_. Mahanon knew with sudden clarity what Dorian was thinking in his bleariness. That he was just another one-night’s lover, making an escape under cover of night. Mahanon had said or thought that same “Don’t go” more than once.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dorian. I just need to move a little. My arm’s asleep.”

“Oh. I -” Dorian loosened his grip on Mahanon’s arm. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know what I was thinking. Still waking up I suppose.”

“No, I get it.” Mahanon slid his arm free and sat up, massaging his sleeping arm and wiggling his fingers, trying to get feeling back. It took a few minutes, but he finally got his arm back to normal.

Ordinarily he’d have gone out to the stream to wash up a bit before the others were awake. But given Dorian’s response a moment ago, he’d skip the bath today.

He laid back down and put his hand right back on Dorian’s chest where it had been. “See? Still here.” He was about to add _I’m not going anywhere_ , but his stomach flipped and he realized he still wasn’t sure he could make that promise. He might have admitted to wanting more than a good fuck, but Dorian had made no such admission - the half-asleep “Don’t go” didn’t count.

He was starting to think that Dorian had actually fallen back asleep when he felt a hand cover his own. They laid there like that in silence for several minutes. Mahanon’s mind was running the same route over and over: _I want this, and he probably doesn’t. And even if we both want a relationship, I have no idea how to do that._ And he wished he knew what Dorian was thinking in those silent moments, surrounded by darkness.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thought finally. _Just do what you know and let the rest come later_ . He rearranged himself so that he could whisper in Dorian’s ear. “So here’s the plan.” He extricated his hand from Dorian’s and ran a finger along the mage’s jaw. “By nightfall, we should be at the camp by the farms. We’ll bathe in the river there. And then we’ll sneak off to that abandoned cabin and I’ll find out if I can make you cry out so loud that you wake everyone at the camp _and_ the farmhouse.”

He felt Dorian shudder, then Dorian rolled suddenly on top of Mahanon and began kissing his throat. “You make it difficult for a man to play hard to get.”

For a moment, Mahanon was too distracted by Dorian's cock pressing against his thigh to reply. Finally, he replied, “So you really didn't care about bathing first? You were just playing hard to get? Because if that's the case…” Mahanon ran his finger tips down the length of Dorian's chest and stomach - Dorian's stomach twitched back slightly at the touch - then hooked his fingers into Dorian's waistband.

Dorian let out a slight moan - more of a hum really - into Mahanon's neck. “No, I really do need to be clean first. But I also like playing hard to get.”

“You do seem rather hard. I’m not sure about the “to get” part, though,” Mahanon teased.

Dorian groaned and rolled away from Mahanon. “A charming attempt, but you are clearly not as witty as I.”

“Yes, well, no one is as witty as Dorian Pavus thinks he is.”

“You wound me,” said Dorian, but Mahanon could hear the grin, even if it was still too dark to see it.

Mahanon rolled onto his side, propped himself up on an elbow, and reached out carefully in the dark for Dorian’s face. Fingers finding purchase on Dorian’s cheek, he planted a kiss on the corner of Dorian’s mouth, still upturned slightly from the grin.

Then Dorian’s hand was at the back of Mahanon’s neck, and Dorian was turning his face toward Mahanon’s to kiss him full on the lips. Mahanon had only been going for a sweet good morning kiss - no, he was bullshitting himself, this was exactly what he’d been hoping for, mouths open, tongues playing experimentally, still learning what the other liked. The sort of hungry kiss that should have been a prelude to clothes coming off.

Mahanon heard the rustle of a tent flap and heavy feet on the forest floor. Blackwall was up. He didn’t care, just wrapped his free hand around the back of Dorian’s head and went on kissing him.

The voices by the campfire were barely muffled by the tent canvas.

“Good morning, Blackwall.”

“Morning.” Blackwall’s voice was still gruff with sleep.

“Do you think Dorian and the Inquisitor are speaking again?”

“They were both still awake at the start of second watch, so I’d say so.”

“That is good. It is never wise to go into combat with unresolved arguments among your allies. And our remaining time on the road should be more pleasant,” replied Solas.

“Unresolved something. Not so sure about arguments,” said Blackwall, with humor in his voice.

In the tent, Dorian finally pulled away from the kiss and turned his face rather abruptly away from Mahanon. “I knew Skyhold was full of gossip, but I wasn’t aware you two were the old biddies responsible,” he called.

Mahanon sat up, grinning. “Just be glad Sera isn’t with them, making _noises_ about our ‘unresolved something.’ Come on, since we’re all awake, we may as well get our day started.”

~~~

Wherever the road would accommodate it, Mahanon and Dorian rode two abreast all day. Solas and Blackwall followed just behind them. The two were quickly becoming friends, often discussing their past experiences as soldiers.

During a lull in his conversation with Dorian, it occurred to Mahanon that his refusal to speak with Dorian the past few days had probably caused a strain on the others, since neither Solas nor Blackwall got along particularly well with Dorian. Not to mention that it had obviously upset Dorian. He’d let himself get so wrapped up in his obstinate avoidance that he didn’t notice how it was affecting the others. That wasn’t like him. Nothing to be done about the past but to do better in the future. And maybe to apologize. Shit. Mahanon hated apologies, but not as much as he hated letting the past stew.

“Dorian,” he started, and paused. “I’m sorry I avoided you. I should have seen how it was affecting you. Shit. I should have been there for you after we got back from Redcliffe.”

“I found quite good company in a bottle of brandy,” said Dorian dismissively.

“You know, all that drinking alone is bad for your health. If we’re - ” Mahanon cut himself off. If we what? If we’re together? If we’re going to have a relationship?

In the few seconds of silence, Mahanon heard something in the distance - metal on metal, like men in armor moving around.

“There’s a clearing up ahead, isn’t there?” Mahanon asked.

Dorian’s confusion was clear in his voice. “I’m not sure; we’ve only come this way twice. Why?”

“I think someone’s camping there. I hear armor. They can probably hear us by now.” Mahanon brought his horse to a stop and dismounted, trusting the others to follow suit. Once everyone had dismounted, they gathered together.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Blackwall.

“Armed camp ahead,” said Mahanon. “I want to scout it before we go any further. They can probably hear our horses already. Let them think we stopped for lunch. If you all stay here and talk, that’s exactly what they’ll think is happening. I’ll go find out whether they’re a danger.”

It was nothing Mahanon hadn’t done before in their travels through Ferelden. The others agreed quickly, though Dorian looked troubled.

“Don’t worry,” Mahanon said, making eye contact with Dorian. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

“I should hope not.”

With that, Mahanon slipped silently into the trees, registering that his companions were indeed falling into conversation behind him. The bright green leaves of early summer would provide ample coverage, but that also meant he would need to get fairly close to get a good look at the people he’d heard.

For several minutes, he walked in stealth, following the occasional ring or scrape of armor. Then he glimpsed tent canvas through the foliage, and glints of armor as well. He worked his way closer, moving from tree to tree for better cover. Soon he was able to see the entire camp: just one tent and a small campfire. Two Red Templars sat next to the fire, apparently cooking their lunch. With only one modest tent, it was unlikely that there were more Templars nearby, although one more was possible. He stood for a while, listening for any indication of a third Templar moving around the surrounding forest. He heard nothing.

He could go back for his comrades, but for two Red Templars? Waste of time. One had its back to him, facing the fire. The other was to the right, also facing the fire - and not wearing a helmet. After a moment of tactical planning, he drew his hunting bow, nocked an arrow, and shot the helmetless Red Templar through the neck. By the time the other Templar yelled in surprise, Mahanon had dropped his bow, closed half the distance into the camp, and drawn his daggers. The Templar was turning and drawing a sword, but Mahanon was close enough now that a few sidesteps kept him behind his enemy. Then he was upon the Red Templar, reaching around and slitting its throat with one dagger.

That’s when he finally heard it: a creak of leather and a single footstep. Damn, they’d had a rogue with them. Rogues among the Templars just seemed so strange he kept forgetting that most of the Red Templar patrols they’d seen so far included a rogue or two.

He turned quickly enough to dodge the killing blow, but the red rogue’s dagger bit into his leather vambrace. Mahanon countered rapidly with a slice across the throat, and the other rogue fell, blood spurting from the fatal wound.

Mahanon confirmed that all three Templars were dead, then looked more closely at his arm. The vambrace was badly damaged, but the blow hadn’t made it past the armor. Satisfied, he cleaned his daggers in the grass, sheathed them, slipped back into the trees, retrieved his bow, and headed back to his companions. He walked as silently as he had when he’d crept up on the camp. It was probably unnecessary, but he was feeling unusually cautious after being surprised by the Red Templar Shadow.

The others were still conversing when he returned, but their conversation quickly dropped off.

“Well, should we gear up for a skirmish?” asked Blackwall.

“Three Red Templars. Already dead.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Dead when you got there, or you took on all three of them?”

“There were only two when I attacked. The other was a rogue. A good one too - not often they’re sneaky enough that I don’t find them before they attack.”

“You said you wouldn’t do anything stupid. Attacking two Red Templars alone qualifies as stupid,” said Dorian.

“Perhaps for a man of average talents,” said Mahanon. “I did take out all three of them without more trouble than a damaged vambrace.”

“Ah, so the invincible Mahanon took a hit after all,” Dorian replied.

“Inquisitor, we all know your skills in combat are formidable,” said Solas. “But it would not have taken much time for you to come back and bring us with.”

“They’d have heard you coming. We would lose the advantage of surprise,” Mahanon protested.

“And gain strength in numbers,” said Blackwall.

Mahanon sighed. “Believe it or not, I have fun taking them out on my own. But if it bothers you all so much, I’ll come get you next time. Did you eat lunch while you waited?”

“We did,” said Solas. “Do you wish to eat while we are still stopped?”

“No, I’ll just eat while we ride.” Mahanon went to his horse’s saddlebags and dug out some jerky and trail bread before mounting again. “Is everyone ready to set out again?”

After a chorus of yeses, the others mounted up and they continued along the road.

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended,” said Dorian. “After all, I would quite like the opportunity to be impressed by your combat skills in person.”

Mahanon looked over at Dorian and saw worry in the tension across Dorian’s forehead, a single deep wrinkle across the center.

He decided not to mention the worry or the wrinkle. “Well, I enjoy impressing you, so I’ll make sure you’re there to see it next time.”

“Good,” said Dorian.

“Have I ever told you about when I took Dirthamen’s vallaslin?” Mahanon asked.

“No,” said Dorian. “Vallaslin are the face tattoos, right?”

“Yes,” Mahanon replied. “And every vallaslin honors a specific Dalish god. Do you know anything about Dirthamen?”

“I’m afraid I’ve only just started reading about the Dalish. I haven’t learned about your gods yet.”

“You know you can ask me about it. You don’t have to get it all from a book.”

“I happen to like books.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mahanon. “How many times have I found you in the library stroking the spine of a book like it’s your lover?”

“You were going to tell me about your vallaslin?”

“Dirthamen. Right. Dirthamen is the god of secrets, which includes stealth. He’s a keeper of knowledge, but also incredibly deadly. Think Leliana. We both saw her in that fucked-up future at Redcliffe, so we’ve seen how lethal she is.

“I started training to be a hunter when I was eight years old. In my clan, hunters also train for combat, in order to guard and protect the clan. So after I had the basics of hunting with a bow down, I started training with daggers.

“When I was fifteen, we were camped not far from a shemlen village. My older sister was out in the forest foraging. There were a few others with her, but she had gone out farther than the rest of them. A human man from the village found her and raped her. The others with her heard her screams, but she had gone far enough out that they were too late to rescue her. They did get a good look at the man though.”

“That’s abhorrent,” said Dorian, when Mahanon paused.

“It was. Ellana was distraught. I wanted to kill the man. So I prayed to Dirthamen that he would guide me to the knowledge of where the man lived, and give me the stealth to kill him unseen. My friend Isel’lan was one of those who got to Ellana afterwards and saw the man, so I brought her with me to spy on the village until she could point him out to me. We saw him go into a house that same day, so I knew where to find him.

“I snuck back there that night. The man had a family, shared a bed with his wife. So I needed to be totally silent. I didn’t want to kill innocents, just the monster who hurt my sister. I remember that night in flashes. Opening the door to see the children in little beds in a loft up above the kitchen. The floorboard that creaked when I was halfway to the door to the only separate room in the little cabin. And then slitting his throat and the spurt of blood and the rattling gasping sounds. His wife woke up, of course, and I had to put her out with knockout powder. I don’t know if the children woke up. I don’t even remember walking out of the house. But I had done it, and no one caught me.

“But the wife had seen me. She’d surely remember my ears and accuse our clan. Even if she didn’t, it’s not unusual for a passing Dalish clan to get blamed for murders in human villages. So I woke our Keeper and told her what I’d done. We left the next morning, before the shemlen could come to take revenge.

“Our clan usually takes vallaslin at age sixteen, but I took mine the next time we made a long-term camp, when I was still fifteen. There’s a custom our clan follows that the first time a youth kills someone to protect the clan or avenge a wrong, they can take their vallaslin.”

“It’s a rite of passage into adulthood, right?” Dorian interjected.

“Yes, and taking a life is the action of an adult. I thought that Dirthamen had helped me avenge my sister’s rape without being caught. So I took Dirthamen’s vallaslin.”

“I don’t know if I would have wanted to put a reminder of that on my face forever.”

“There aren’t really mirrors among the Dalish. But Ellana couldn’t look at me for weeks. I regret that. I don’t regret much in my life, but I regret taking my vallaslin when Ellana’s pain was so fresh.

“Anyway, point is, I’ve been good at stealth and killing for a long time. It’s literally written on my face. I’ll bring you guys in next time. But I don’t want you to worry when I go off scouting. I can handle myself.”

“ _That_ was the moral of this story? Here I thought it was a story about you valiantly defending a lady’s virtue! If you ever tell Varric that tale, it’ll go directly into the novel he’s inevitably going to write about the Inquisition.”

Mahanon sighed. “In a lot of people’s eyes, Ellana’s rape would not be enough to justify an _elf savage_ murdering a man in his wife’s bed, with his children sleeping upstairs. It’s better for the Dalish everywhere if that story doesn’t get widely shared.”

“Mm. I take your point,” said Dorian. After a brief pause, he continued. “You said that you thought Dirthamen had helped you. Do you no longer believe that?”

“The stories say the gods are locked away in the Beyond. I don’t think Dirthamen could have helped me. I was lucky, and quick with the knockout powder.”

“And brave enough to try it in the first place,” Dorian added, just loud enough to be heard clearly over the horses’ hooves.

Mahanon laughed. “Brave enough and stupid enough.”

“Aha! You admit it’s stupid when you go rushing into combat alone!”

“And you admit it’s brave,” Mahanon replied. “Part of my dashing appeal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry we didn't get to the smut this time! Mahanon had other ideas. (Mahanon also did not like my ideas about "let's show them having some lovely conversation," so this is what we get instead. I think Mahanon was right.) Fairly sure there will be smut next chapter - I just haven't decided how much is going to be "on-screen" as it were.


	4. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things escalate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the updated tags.
> 
> This scene is set at and around the Redcliffe Farms Camp, near Dennet’s farm. I am imagining the area as much larger than it appears in-game. We need more than two tents and more than two scouts at a semi-permanent camp. And I think the camp would be set up a little farther from the river. I'm also taking some liberties with a nearby abandoned cabin.
> 
> Apologies for the long wait on this chapter! It got long. Also my first time writing smut, so that took a long time to get down on the page.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts, including any criticisms! I don't know what I'm doing, but I want to get it right.

To their right, the sun was sinking low as the four rode south away from the lake to the camp near Dennet’s farm. The forested hills around them were painted gold, and the wind that had picked up in the afternoon now dropped away to perfect stillness. They knew they were nearing camp when the smell of stewing meat and vegetables reached them.

“Marvelous,” said Dorian, voice dripping sarcasm. “Another delicious Ferelden stew. Perhaps this one won’t taste like barnyard.”

“Better than trail bread and cured meat,” Mahanon replied.

“I’m not so sure of that. Trail bread has never given me food poisoning.”

They followed the trail as it bent around a hill, and the farmhouse, outbuildings, and Inquisition camp all came into view. Tent canvas glowed orange in the last rays of direct sun. It wasn’t aravels, and it wasn’t Skyhold, but Mahanon found himself looking forward to staying at an established campsite. The stationed scouts would manage night watches and cooking, so for this night and the next, they’d have a bit more rest time.

But before they reported to the camp, they’d leave their horses in Dennet’s stable under Seanna’s watchful eye.

“Race you to the stables!” Mahanon said suddenly, and spurred his horse into a gallop.

“Are you a child?” called Dorian after him, but Mahanon could hear Dorian’s mount fast on the heels of his own. He knew Dorian’s pride wouldn’t allow him to decline a challenge. He also knew Dorian was the better horseman, Mahanon having only learned to ride after joining the Inquisition.

It was mere minutes before they rode up to the stables, Dorian well ahead of Mahanon. He had dismounted by the time Mahanon brought his own horse to a stop.

“Well, Inquisitor, what has my clearly superior horsemanship won me?” Dorian’s lips were twitching up. Mahanon suspected that Dorian was trying to turn an outright grin into a smirk. It might have worked on someone who was less fascinated with every movement of those lips.

Mahanon didn’t reply until he had dismounted and could walk over and whisper in Dorian’s ear. “I have some ideas for a prize.” He paused, his lips an inch at most from Dorian’s ear. “Of course, they’re all things I was planning on doing to you anyway.”

He walked away to find an unoccupied stall for his horse, confident that Dorian was watching him and enjoying the view.

Before long, Solas and Blackwall caught up to them. They rubbed down the horses and refilled feed troughs. Mahanon pulled a few essentials from his saddlebags, and they stepped out into the gathering dusk.

They walked in silence, having conversed through much of the day. The stillness and shadow seemed to call for reverence and reflection. Not that Mahanon’s reflections were particularly reverent. Dorian was walking directly in front of him, and Mahanon was watching the movements of Dorian’s hips and ass in the tight, strappy leathers that Dorian insisted on. Even after a day riding, Dorian moved with an effortlessly smooth sway that Mahanon found hypnotizing.

His mind was beginning to drift to other ways Dorian’s hips might move when Solas, walking beside him, interrupted Mahanon’s reverie. “My research suggests that there is another elven artifact nearby. Perhaps we could search it out while we are in the area?”

“It may have to depend on how long it takes to find and defeat the Venatori camped in the area,” Mahanon replied, “But if time allows, we’ll certainly seek out the artifact.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“Sure thing.”

And then they were at camp, a scout stepping forward to greet them. “Inquisitor. We have reports from Leliana for you. Would you like them right away?”

“No, leave them for the morning when there’s enough light to read properly.”

“Yes, ser. Those two tents on the end are set up for you and your traveling party. I believe Scout Riley has the stew ready now, if you’re hungry after your travels.”

“I’ll take stew over reports! Thank you.”

After stowing their few personal things in the tents, they beelined to the fire, each taking a bowl of stew and bread - _real bread_ \- from Scout Riley. There was just enough room on the benches around the fire for the Inquisitor’s party and the stationed scouts, and Mahanon found himself sitting nearly hip-to-hip with Dorian.

The scouts were carrying on a conversation - something about a rift over the river - with Solas and Blackwall joining in occasionally. Mahanon couldn’t focus on what they were saying, because every time he brought his fork to his mouth, his right shoulder brushed against Dorian’s left. Despite the layers of armor between them, the contact sent thrills through him. It was maddening. When was the last time he’d been so worked up by so little? Six years ago with Amelan? No, he’d gotten like this for a while with Emmet, but that had been later, after they’d been sleeping together. He shuddered. Neither of those had ended well. This was probably another bad sign, like the stomach flips.

“Inquisitor? Will we close the rift tomorrow before we seek out the Venatori?” Solas asked, with the tone of someone who had already asked once. Shit, how long had he been lost in thought?

“Oh. Of course.”

“It has apparently been giving the scouts quite some trouble, since it is located just beyond the waterfall north of camp,” Solas said, seemingly summing up the conversation thus far.

“Is there anything else we should take care of while we’re in the area?”

“No, that’s about all in the immediate area,” said one of the scouts.

“Just one hole in the fabric of reality and a smattering of cultists trying to conquer the world for a has-been empire. Must be Tuesday,” Dorian said.

“Do we have the exact location for those Venatori camps?” Mahanon asked. As the scouts described the location, he marked it on his mental map. Then Dorian’s knee bumped into his, and he lost sight of his mental map completely. He snuck a glance over at Dorian’s face and saw that the corner of his mouth was upturned just slightly in the subtlest hint of a smirk. It sent his heart racing, perhaps because, even as he turned his gaze resolutely back to the fire, he was thinking of kissing that upturned curve of lips.

“I’ll have you mark it on my map in the morning,” Mahanon said to the scout. “I think I have a good idea of where to go, but it never hurts to have it on the map too.”

Conversation faltered for a moment and left the awkward silence of a mixed group of friends and strangers. Mahanon considered it his duty to revive any flagging conversation. “Blackwall, I’ll bet the scouts would get a kick out of that story you told us the other day. The one with the marquis and the wyvern?”

“Oh, Marquis d’Archambon? That whole family lost its sense of self-preservation centuries ago. Before I was recruited to the Wardens, I was hired to go wyvern hunting with the last Marquis d’Archambon,” Blackwall began. It was a long story, the way he liked to tell it, and Mahanon had heard it twice already. It was a poor choice for a distraction from Dorian’s presence beside him. And that had been the goal. It would be an equally poor distraction to Dorian, and if Dorian was going to deliberately rile him up, he’d have to rile right back.

Mahanon put his hand to the bench between them, knuckles down, the heel of his hand pressing against Dorian’s thigh. With any luck, combined with his slight lean forward, it would look like he was merely paying rapt attention to Blackwall’s story. He stole another glance over at Dorian’s face, searching for evidence he was getting a reaction. They made eye contact for a moment longer than could be passed off as an accident, and the smolder in Dorian’s eyes was not just an effect of the firelight.

It was hard to feel smug with his heart beating so loud Solas could probably hear it on the next bench over.

After a long moment, Mahanon moved his hand. He’d almost forgotten his stew bowl in his left hand, and he took a moment to sop up the last of the stew with the end of his bread. Before Mahanon had even finished chewing, Dorian was on his feet taking the empty bowl from Mahanon. One of the scouts nodded to a tin basin next to another of the benches, and Dorian deposited their bowls. Mahanon watched every step, though it was only four paces away and then back.

When Dorian sat back down, he sat too close, their thighs touching from hip to knee. Dorian scooted perhaps two inches away again, muttering an apology, as if it had been a clumsy accident borne of the crowded seating arrangements. Mahanon’s leather trousers were beginning to feel confining.

“So he’s trying to run away, but the wyvern still has its jaws clamped around his leg,” Blackwall was saying. Good, that was near the end. “Lucky for him, he was running straight towards me. Once I got the Marquis to stop moving, it was easy enough to chop the wyvern’s head off. The hard part was prising the severed head off d’Archambon’s leg after. The bite was so bad and so quickly infected they had to amputate above the knee. But when your granddad was killed by a bogfisher, losing a leg to a wyvern isn’t so bad.”

Mahanon wasn’t really paying attention to the scouts’ remarks about the story. As soon as he found a gap in the conversation, he excused himself. “I’m just going to take a walk down by the river before I turn in. Good night, everyone.”

He retrieved his pack from the tent and walked silently to the north edge of the camp, giving the fire and his companions a wide berth. It wasn’t far to the place where the river pooled into a little pond, but the firelight quickly fell off. He stepped carefully while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the absence of firelight. Fortunately, both moons were out, the larger Moon hanging huge just over the horizon, casting enough light for him to walk confidently once his eyes adjusted.

As he walked, he began to worry. Would Dorian follow him? He hadn’t actually agreed to Mahanon’s plan that morning. What if he’d forgotten? Or decided he didn’t want to be as obvious as to follow Mahanon to the river?

He had forgotten how rocky this little pool was. Tall grass grew around large, smooth stones, quickly giving way to chest-high water. Mahanon found a knee-high boulder a little distance from the water’s edge and set his pack down on it. Whether or not Dorian was joining him, he needed a bath. He unlaced and removed his vambraces, stacking them neatly on the boulder. He had undone the clasps of his overcoat and was shrugging it off when he heard footsteps in the grass behind him. His worry turned to a sick jittery feeling in his stomach as his pulse quickened. He turned to see a little ball of magelight approaching him, still a ways off, just a few paces from camp. The light was bobbing near waist height, but it was bright enough to light Dorian’s face in stark white.

Mahanon realized his overcoat was still half on, hanging at his elbows. He slid the rest of the way out of it and turned around to fold it haphazardly - the leather never really laid flat anyway - and leave it on the boulder beside his pack and vambraces. Back still turned to the approaching mage, Mahanon pulled his shirt off over his head, folded it, placed it on the boulder. The night air was cool enough to raise goosebumps on his exposed torso, but not cold enough to be responsible for the little shiver that went through him as he began unlacing his trousers, listening to Dorian’s footsteps approaching with deliberate slowness. His nervousness felt wrong, unfamiliar. How many times had he undressed for a man without even thinking about it? Why should this be any different?

He had his thumbs hooked under his waistband before he remembered that he should maybe take off his boots before his trousers. Wouldn’t that have been embarrassing, trousers half down while he fumbled with the laces on his boots?

He put his left foot up on the boulder and began unlacing the boot. Dorian’s footsteps were close now, perhaps three paces away. Two paces. One. And then there was a single fingertip on his back, tracing down his spine.

Mahanon pulled off the boot, dropped it, turned, grabbed Dorian’s face in his hands, kissed him hard, pressed his chest into Dorian’s. And then Dorian’s hands were on his waist, on the bare skin just above his trousers, and he couldn’t help but roll his hips into Dorian’s. It occured to Mahanon that he was being needy, unrestrained in a way that could only lead to trouble. And then Dorian’s tongue was tracing his lip and he wasn’t thinking in words anymore. For a moment, it was only lips and tongue, and strong hands on bare skin.

He ran his hands down to Dorian’s chest, remembered that one of them was still fully dressed. They should fix that. Dorian was wearing that weird half-cape thing over his armor. How did that come off? It was under the belt. At that point in Mahanon’s thought process, Dorian nipped his lower lip, and Mahanon’s eyes rolled back under the lids and he thought of nothing for a sweet moment. Then he dropped his hands to Dorian’s belt, found the buckle, and undid it. Dorian hummed into the kiss.

With deliberate control, Mahanon placed the belt on the boulder behind him without breaking the kiss. Next up, weird cape thing. Did it buckle somewhere? Come off over the head? He pulled away from the kiss. “Um, Dorian? How does the cape come off?” Creators, he sounded ridiculous.

Dorian gave a low chuckle but didn’t answer. He pulled his staff from its holster on his back - Mahanon figured it must have been strapped to the cape. Hm, so the weird Tevinter fashion statement had a function? Then Dorian pulled the cape over his head, threw it over the boulder with a flourish, and began unbuckling bits of his armor. Mahanon stopped himself from kissing Dorian again, because maybe he should be taking notes for next time. Hopefully there would be a next time. When Dorian had finished with buckles and knots, he stepped out of the entire ensemble, leaving him in tight-fitting shirt and trousers. The armor followed the cape onto the boulder, and Mahanon pulled Dorian into another kiss. He ran his hands up under Dorian’s shirt, but Dorian stepped back. “Bath first,” he chastised.

“Right, but you can’t very well bathe in your clothes.”

“I… need a bit more space until I’m clean,” Dorian said.

Mahanon thought that was absurd and almost said as much, but he caught himself in time. Instead he said, “You’ll have to make it up to me later then.”

“Mm. I intend to.”

Mahanon kissed Dorian once more, fingers tracing his jawline, teeth nipping his lip. He pulled away abruptly. “Clothes off. Before I shove you in still dressed.”

Mahanon turned to put his right foot on the boulder and unlace the boot he was still wearing. Dorian’s shirt flew over his head to land on the growing pile of discards and Mahanon laughed. “Nice shot.”

He pulled off the boot, then shucked off his trousers and smalls in one smooth motion. He was pretty sure he could feel Dorian’s gaze on him, and his heart thumped wildly at the thought. “Still can’t believe you’ve never bathed in a river or lake,” he said as he dumped his trousers on the pile and took the few steps over to the water’s edge.

“Traveling in Tevinter is quite an involved affair. Carriages, wagons, servants, the whole production. When you’ve got all that, what’s a bathtub in the mix?”

Mahanon stepped into the river, the water coming up to his knees even here at the edge. “I’m sure this is entirely savage by comparison. Still, same principle. Get wet. Use soap.” He paused. “Fuck, I left the soap in my pack.”

“I’ll get it,” said Dorian.

“Just grab my towel, then. The soap’s wrapped up in it.” Mahanon took a few steps forward into the water and was soon up to his chest. The water was cool but not cold, this pool off the river being small enough and still enough that the early summer sun had warmed off the worst of the spring chill. He heard Dorian rustling through his pack and turned to face him. He was treated to a full view of Dorian in side profile, lit by a ball of magelight hanging over their disarrayed things. Creators, that was a man made to be chiseled from marble, perfectly proportioned muscle running from shoulders to calves.

The towel found, Dorian turned and visibly noticed Mahanon staring at him. “Enjoying the show? Hardly fair, given that you went straight into the water.”

Mahanon snorted. “The only thing that’s unfair is that there’s no competing with that ass. Or that cock. Or honestly any part of you. If I were capable of it, I’d feel inadequate.”

Dorian stepped into the water, then turned to set the towel on a nearby but dryish rock. “It’s hard to compete with perfection,” he said, turning back and stepping deeper into the water. “Lucky for you, there’s room in the world for two perfect asses. _Fasta vass_ , it’s cold in here.”

Mahanon grinned. “You’ve never bathed in spring snowmelt. _That’s_ cold.”

“I wonder if I could heat the water? It’s not that large a pool.”

“With us in it? What if you overdo it and roast us alive? The Herald of Andraste: Survives the Conclave, drops a mountain on Corypheus, only to be boiled alive while bathing in a river with a Vint.”

“A singularly handsome and charming Vint.”

“Which of course only makes it a more dastardly end for Andraste’s chosen!” Mahanon paused. “I don’t actually have a problem with it if you want to heat the water. Long as you’re confident you won’t overshoot.”

“I’ll go gradually,” said Dorian, and closed his eyes, presumably to focus on a spell. Mahanon felt the chill in the water lessen slightly.

“By the time you get it up to temp, you could have just gotten used to the cool water,” Mahanon said, stepping closer to the shore to unwrap his towel and grab the soap. Of course, standing there put him inches away from Dorian. He turned, soap in hand.

At some point, Dorian had let the magelight disperse, and the moonlight on Dorian’s closed eyes was the most enchanting thing Mahanon had ever seen. The water around him was slipping past lukewarm to warm, but he was thinking of what else he might get Dorian to focus on later that night. He might have kissed Dorian right then, but the water’s continued warming reminded him that Dorian’s focus was needed elsewhere. A kiss was not worth burnt bits.

“I can feel you staring,” Dorian complained.

“Admit it, you like the attention,” Mahanon purred. The water was hot now, and after a long moment of silence, steam began to rise.

Dorian opened his eyes. “That’s more like it!”

Mahanon remembered suddenly that he was just standing there, water barely to his waist, soap in hand, staring like an idiot. He looked away and began to soap up. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dorian sinking down into the water, all the way up to his neck.

“What are you doing? Sitting on a rock?”

“Why not? It’s our own personal hot spring. I may as well enjoy it.”

“For the record,” Mahanon said as he washed, “this no longer qualifies as ‘bathing like the Dalish.’ Although, come to think of it, I wouldn’t put it past our First to heat up a little pool like this one.”

“What is a First?”

“Apprentice to the Keeper. Wait, do you know about Keepers?”

“Leader of the clan. Always a mage,” Dorian said.

“I guess you have learned something from those books.” Mahanon stepped deeper into the pool to wet his hair and soaped it up. “Catch!” He tossed the soap to Dorian, who caught it, splashing Mahanon in the process.

“Impressive. Did you learn that from a book too?” Mahanon asked, grinning.

Dorian rolled his eyes and began to wash up. Mahanon bent his knees and leaned his head back to rinse out the suds. Dorian said something, but with his ears under the water, Mahanon only heard vague blubbing sounds. He stood up straight again. “What was that?”

“What exactly do you have against books?”

“I don’t have anything against them. It’s just most Dalish knowledge is passed on orally. You want to know something, you ask somebody. I think my clan owns maybe five books? That’s the Keeper’s job, not something I had to bother with as a hunter. We all learned to read a little bit, can be useful dealing with _shem_ \- with humans. But I’ve never read for the hell of it like you do.”

“You’ve taught me to bathe like the Dalish; maybe I can teach you to read like an Altus.”

“Will that also involve getting you naked?”

“Not as a general rule, no,” said Dorian.

“I happen to like breaking rules, general or otherwise.”

“I know. It’s a rather dashing quality of yours,” Dorian said, and Mahanon thought it might have been the most direct compliment Dorian had ever paid him. And then Dorian was ducking his head to rinse off, interrupting their conversation. Mahanon began wading toward him, so that when Dorian stood up straight again, they were only inches apart.

Mahanon brought his face close to Dorian’s, so that he was whispering a hair’s breadth from Dorian’s lips. “Are you sufficiently clean now?”

“Yes.”

Mahanon didn’t kiss Dorian. Not on the lips anyway. What would be the fun in that? Wrapping an arm around Dorian’s waist, he ran his lips down along the Dorian’s neck in one smooth, slow motion. Then he placed several soft, distinct kisses outward along Dorian’s shoulder, then down onto muscular chest. Dorian’s skin was wet and warm from their bath, and smooth and supple because of course Dorian would have some elaborate Tevinter skincare regimen, and normally Mahanon found such things tedious and pretentious, but Creators, if that smooth skin over hard muscle didn’t make him ache with want. And Dorian was making little hums of pleasure, still too refined and put-together to be called moans, but that was more than enough encouragement for Mahanon.

His free hand went to Dorian’s ass. His mouth went to Dorian’s nipple, where he licked tight circles. He gave a brief suck and heard a sharp intake of breath above him.

He needed more. More than polite hums and gasps, more than measured foreplay meant as much to display skill as to titillate. He lifted his head to kiss Dorian desperately on the lips. His hips rocked forward, rubbing their cocks together under the water. Dorian moaned, the sound more desire than pleasure.

Their mouths were still locked together, teeth knocking together, tongues dipping deep. Mahanon realized suddenly that he’d moved his hands without even registering it, one now at the back of Dorian’s head and the other on his chest. Without breaking the kiss, he ran the hand on Dorian’s chest down the length of Dorian’s torso to his cock and took him in hand. The back of his knuckles brushed against himself and he gasped into Dorian’s mouth.

Mahanon began to stroke him, and Dorian’s breath hitched. Their lips grew clumsy and they broke the kiss. Dorian bowed his head forward, leaning their foreheads together. At some point, Mahanon’s eyes had fallen closed. His knuckles kept rubbing along his own cock as he stroked, and it was making his breath ragged with need. Dorian’s hands were on his back, grasping then floating downward. One hand stayed at the small of his back, pressing him closer, the other clutched his ass, and he moaned.

“I need you,” Mahanon said, and the rasp in his voice proved it. “Out of the water.”

“It’ll be cold,” Dorian complained, as if the water wasn’t cooling around them.

“I’ll keep you warm,” Mahanon promised, and his hands were on Dorian’s waist, moving him backward toward the shore. They stumbled, laughing in response, when Dorian’s legs hit the rock ledge he’d been sitting on earlier. Dorian turned and climbed out of the pool. Mahanon watched the muscles of Dorian’s thigh contract with the step up, watched the water slough, black and glinting, off his legs.

Mahanon followed him out of the water as Dorian took a few steps away and turned to face him. Mahanon closed the distance between them and dropped to his knees. He wrapped his hands around the backs of Dorian’s thighs and began kissing his way up from knee to hip, licking up drops of water as he went. And then Dorian shivered and kept shivering.

“You’re freezing, aren’t you?”

“And there’s a rock cutting into my foot. But don’t stop,” Dorian said, running a hand through Mahanon’s hair.

“No, you’re shivering, and not the good kind. Let’s dry you off. We could go to that cabin like I suggested, light a fire.” Mahanon stood and stepped around Dorian to get his towel from the rocks by the pool.

“You southerners. ‘Oo, how romantic, a falling down hovel. Let’s make love there,’” Dorian mocked as Mahanon wrapped him in the towel.

“Look, I’m Dalish. Stationary buildings are a fucking novelty.” Mahanon paused. “A novelty for fucking.”

“You’re terrible,” Dorian said, but he was grinning as he dried off.

“Am I?” Mahanon breathed into his ear, letting his lips brush against its outer edge. Then Dorian bent to dry his legs and silver light played across golden skin rippling with the movement of his muscles. Slowly, lightly, Mahanon ran his fingertips down Dorian’s back. Then Dorian was turning, dropping the towel in the grass, pulling him into another searing kiss.

When they finally pulled back from the kiss, Mahanon said, “You’re still shivering. I’m serious about the cabin. I don’t want us to be thinking about being cold the whole time.” He kissed Dorian’s jawline. “And I want you in firelight.” He didn’t say _If this is the only time, I want to remember it_. He didn’t say _If this is more, I want it to be perfect_.

Dorian sighed. “Falling down hovel it is. You’re an insufferable tease.”

“Just find your trousers and let’s go,” Mahanon said, retrieving the towel from where it had fallen and drying himself in a rush.

In moments, they were dressed in trousers and shirts and carrying their armor back to camp. Dorian lit the way with magelight. “We can leave our armor and things at camp and grab our blankets from the bedrolls,” Mahanon said.

By some miracle, Blackwall was no longer at the fireside to notice their telling return to camp. Mahanon was fairly sure the teasing would have gone on for days. Solas acknowledged them with a nod, and the scouts gave their usual “Ser” without additional comment.

At their tent, they exchanged armor for blankets. Mahanon was grateful that the entrance to their tent was beyond the reach of the firelight, so their departure could not be scrutinized too closely.

Another few minutes’ walk - made slightly longer by stolen touches and kisses along the way - and they reached the abandoned cabin they’d explored on a previous journey. The door hung open and they stepped inside, pulling it shut behind them.

Immediately Mahanon pressed Dorian to the nearest wall. His lips crashed against Dorian’s for a brief moment, and then he slipped his hands up Dorian’s shirt, running up along the hard muscle of Dorian’s abdomen before lifting the shirt up over Dorian’s head.

He dropped Dorian’s shirt unceremoniously on the floor, dropped his face to Dorian’s neck to kiss and nibble and suck. “Light us a fire, lover,” he said, voice low, lips still brushing Dorian’s skin.

Flames flared up enthusiastically in the fireplace, lighting the bits of log and dead coals that lay there. Mahanon lavished kisses down Dorian’s chest and stomach. He had intended to take his time with it, but he found himself rushing, so eager he couldn’t linger properly. Maybe next time ( _let there be a next time_ ). His fingertips followed in the wake of his hasty lips.

“Creators,” Mahanon said, kneeling and looking up at Dorian’s face, hands still trailing across his torso. “You’re fucking beautiful.” Dorian hadn’t even laced his trousers in their hurry, so Mahanon pulled them down for Dorian to step out of.

He kissed Dorian on the hipbone, eliciting a needy sound from him. He brought his hands to Dorian’s hips, pinning him to the wall, and began to kiss from the base of Dorian’s cock to its tip.

“Please,” Dorian breathed, and his hand was in Mahanon’s hair, playing mindlessly and tugging slightly. Mahanon couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He took Dorian into his mouth, tongue swirling around the head before he drew him in deeper. Anxiety washed over him for a moment - he really was playing with fire, and he’d get burnt like he always did - but then he pulled himself back into the present moment, to focus on the faint scent of sex already in the air; the taste of Dorian, clean but already slightly salty from precum; the feeling of fingers in his hair; Dorian’s perfectly shaped hips under his own fingers.

He narrowed his focus down again until the world was only his mouth around Dorian, sucking him in all the way to the back of his mouth. His tongue played along the underside as he pulled his head back then pressed forward again, beginning to fuck his mouth on Dorian’s cock. Dorian’s hips were bucking against his hands. Mahanon dragged his palms down to Dorian’s thighs to give him some freedom to control the pace. He felt his lips vibrate, realized he was moaning. Dorian’s hips rocked in response. Mahanon took him into his throat and swallowed. Dorian moaned, then pulled his hips back.

“Wait,” he said, voice raspy and breathless. “I need you inside me.”

Mahanon growled, mouth still around the head of Dorian’s cock. He leaned back, releasing him, then stood, wrapped an arm around Dorian’s waist, and kissed him hard but briefly.

Then Dorian’s hands were on Mahanon’s shirt, tugging it roughly off over his head. Dorian’s hands ran down his torso, and Mahanon just had the presence of mind to wonder at their softness, how they were somehow uncalloused despite wielding a staff in combat day after day. He couldn’t ponder it, though, because now those hands were loosening the half-done laces of his trousers and pulling them down. Mahanon stepped out of them and into another kiss, needy and graceless, all teeth tugging on lips and tongues thrusting heedlessly.

There was a double-wide bed in the corner straight in from the door. Mahanon, hands on Dorian’s waist, began steering them toward it without breaking the kiss. It was only a few steps and he was pressing Dorian back against the mattress, following him down with his mouth, pressing frantic kisses to his collarbone.

“Just a second,” he said, sliding his hands down from waist to hips to thighs. “I brought oil, was in one of my pockets.”

It took him just a moment to fumble through his clothes and find the little glass vial of oil. He turned back to the bed to find Dorian sitting up on his elbows, staring at him with undisguised want in his darkened eyes, lips parted slightly, chest rising slightly with every uneven breath.

“Enjoying the view?” Dorian teased, and Mahanon realized he’d been standing there staring. “Or do you take some perverse pleasure in making me wait?”

“It’s a very distracting view,” said Mahanon defensively, crossing quickly back to the bed. “Although there’s another view I was rather hoping to see.”

“You mean this one?” Dorian asked, rolling over and lifting his ass in the air playfully.

Mahanon hummed his approval and grabbed Dorian’s ass with one hand. Mahanon mounted the bed, kneeling between Dorian’s spread legs. He trailed a hand along Dorian’s thigh. “You comfortable like this?”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Dorian said, and Mahanon could hear the smirk in his voice.

Mahanon coated his fingers in oil and set the vial carefully on the floor. He traced a finger down the cleft of Dorian’s ass, stroked across his entrance. It puckered, and he slipped one finger inside, rubbing little circles as he went. Dorian adapted quickly to Mahanon’s narrow elven finger and was soon bucking his hips back into the touch. His eagerness was intoxicating, and Mahanon had to force himself to focus as he pressed a second finger inside and began to curl his fingers against the pleasure point. With a pleased hum, Dorian's bucking slowed and turned to a slow roll of the hips, grinding on Mahanon’s fingers.

Dorian's face was turned toward the faltering fire, eyes closed in enjoyment. Mahanon watched Dorian's expression shift with each movement of fingers and hips. He remembered something the Tevinter had said about his homeland - “no reserve, not in war and not in love.”

The movement of Dorian's hips changed again, picking up speed, growing irregular. Mahanon pulled his fingers out and trailed his other hand up Dorian's side, then back down again, along the hip, down the thigh. All the while, Dorian trembled under his fingers. Mahanon couldn't help a lascivious grin.

 _“Tease,”_ Dorian accused breathlessly. Mahanon revelled in the sheer desire in Dorian's voice. He loved this, loved how he could make a man _want_ him with nothing but his fingers. But he wanted to hear him say it.

“You seem to be enjoying my teasing. What do you want instead?”

Dorian opened his eyes to glare back at him. “I want _you_. _Now_.”

The urgency in those words had Mahanon’s hands shaking slightly as he reached for the oil and coated himself with it.

One hand went right back to teasing, fingertips playing across skin. With the other hand, he guided himself into Dorian, and for a moment he lost track of any sensation except Dorian warm and tight around him, smooth flesh slick with oil.

And then Dorian was up on his hands and bucking his hips back into him and _gods yes_. Mahanon began to thrust in time with Dorian, and the mage let out a long sound, half moan, half whimper.

The fire was dying back to embers and still Dorian’s skin glowed brown and gold in the reddening light. Mahanon could just make out a little mole on the left side of Dorian’s spine halfway up. The world was Dorian - Dorian glowing in the low light, Dorian breathing fast and rough, Dorian moving against him, Dorian’s waist under his hands, Dorian exquisitely tight around his cock. He had very little sense of the minutes passing, except that the light was only a faint red glow by the time he felt Dorian speeding up the pace.

“Touch me,” Dorian said, but Mahanon was already reaching for him. He wrapped his hand around Dorian, and the feel of him in his hand was almost too much. He collapsed, chest against Dorian’s back, his thrusts growing irregular against Dorian’s quick, even movements. He began to stroke Dorian’s cock, slick with precum and the oil still on Mahanon’s hand. He matched long, even strokes to Dorian’s moving hips. And then he could feel Dorian shuddering beneath him with orgasm, and Dorian was clenching around him, and an obscene cry fell from Dorian’s lips, and Mahanon was falling over the edge into pulsing, mindless release.

Dorian collapsed onto the bed and Mahanon fell with him. He peppered gentle kisses across the stretch of back he could reach without moving much, until it suddenly occurred to him how intimate that gesture felt, and he stopped abruptly. Dorian protested the sudden lack of attention with a little “hmph” sound. Mahanon became aware of his hand trapped beneath Dorian’s stomach in the wet, sticky mess they’d made of the bed. He extricated his hand and stood on shaky legs to find his waterskin and the rag he’d shoved in a pocket.

“Are you going?” Dorian asked, and he didn’t keep all the tension from his voice.

“Just want to get us cleaned up is all.”

Mahanon wiped off his hands, then returned to sit on the unmessed edge of the bed and offered the water and rag to Dorian, who took them and cleaned himself off. He set them unceremoniously on the floor when he’d finished, then carefully laid down nearer where Mahanon was sitting, away from the wet spot on the bed.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch me?”

“Mm. Sorry, distracting view again.” Mahanon smirked, but laid down facing Dorian. But then he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Kissing felt too intimate just now, as did the intense eye contact that was happening given where he’d placed his head. He put a hand on Dorian’s neck and closed his eyes to escape it.

He might have drifted into sleep for a moment before he felt Dorian’s finger tracing across his forehead. Was he? Yes. Tracing the lines of his vallaslin. Surely it was just an idle gesture, but it felt shockingly tender. Mahanon felt a shudder go through him from the spine up, like a sudden chill, and Dorian withdrew his hand.

He opened his eyes and moved his hand from Dorian’s neck to his arm, which he noticed was breaking out in goosebumps.

“You’re cold again,” Mahanon accused.

“Mm,” said Dorian.

“Isn’t there a wood pile against this sad little shack? I’ll put some logs on the fire.” Despite the warning, Dorian gave a little moan of displeasure when Mahanon moved away from him and sat up. The dirt floor was cold against his feet as he stood and walked to the door. He didn’t bother dressing; he was feeling too blissful and lazy to bother with any more than the essential. And essential was making sure the hot-house orchid in his bed (well, not _his_ bed per se) wasn’t freezing in his arms.

In less than a minute, he was back inside, an armful of firewood leaning into his chest, rough and splintery against his bare skin. He added three logs to the fireplace and set the rest down nearby. He turned to find Dorian sitting up on the bed, still gloriously naked, by turns looking at him and looking away.

“Something on your mind?” Mahanon asked, coming over to sit beside Dorian.

“There’s… something I want to know,” Dorian said, and paused, looking away again.

Mahanon brushed a kiss against Dorian’s shoulder. “Tell me?”

“I’m curious where this goes, you and I. We’ve had fun, perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing archdemons and such.” Dorian paused, turned to Mahanon, apparently not quite willing to pose the question.

“I thought I was clear earlier, when I said I would… This is more than just fun to me, Dorian.”

There was a long silence. Dorian turned away, staring at the floor of the cabin like he might make the dirt catch fire. Mahanon felt his throat tighten. Dorian didn’t want this. Of course he didn’t.

“Do you want to leave it here?” he heard himself asking.

“No,” said Dorian quickly. “It’s just I was… expecting something different.” He turned to Mahanon. “Where I come from, anything between two men - it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to.”

“It’s not that different among the Dalish. But call me a fool. I want more. With you.” Mahanon had held eye contact while he said it, but it was overwhelming, his heart racing and stomach flipping madly. He turned away.

“More the fool I am,” Dorian said, “not seeing a good thing when it’s right in front of me.”

Mahanon turned back to him, put a hand on his cheek, watched the fire bring out all the myriad hues of grey in Dorian’s eyes. He kissed him, long and smoldering, tongue barely flicking against Dorian’s lips. When he finally broke away, he saw desire flickering again in Dorian’s eyes. He felt himself stirring at the sight.

“Care to, ah, inquisit me again?” Dorian asked.

“Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“No, but just imagine what we’ll both be thinking every time I call you ‘Inquisitor’ from now on,” Dorian said with a smirk.

“Just as well I’m not easily embarrassed.”

“Mm. Then perhaps it will have other effects,” Dorian purred, lips nearly brushing Mahanon’s, one finger stroking faintly, suggestively, along Mahanon’s hardening length.

“You sure you want to be ‘inquisited’? Don’t want to switch?” Mahanon asked, squeezing Dorian’s thigh.

“Not tonight. But I would very much like to look at you this time.”

Mahanon managed to silence the part of him that said looking at each other was dangerous. They’d agreed: this was more. He could let himself do the dangerous thing. He’d surely regret it later, but at least “later” wouldn’t be tomorrow. Probably.

He kissed Dorian again, tipping him back onto the bed. Mahanon stood. Grasping him by the thighs, he dragged Dorian to the edge of the bed. He bent down to whisper in Dorian’s ear. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Dorian replied in a husky whisper, running his fingertips down Mahanon’s chest to grip his already-hard cock.

Mahanon heard his own moan as if it were at a distance. He bent down for the oil, felt Dorian’s eyes on him as he slicked himself up again. He raised his own eyes as he grasped Dorian’s hips in both hands.

As Mahanon entered him, Dorian tipped his head back and bit his lip to (ineffectively) stifle a moan. His eyes remained open, though, seeking out Mahanon's. It felt obscene. It felt desperate. It felt like a pain in his chest. It felt like love. _Fenedhis,_ Mahanon thought, _I am so fucked._


End file.
